The year I graduated as a commercial art major from Detroit’s prestigious Cass Technical High School I did not attend my senior prom.
As a teenager in the mid-1950s, I listened faithfully to country and western music radio — especially Patsy Cline — and later ‘Senator’ Bristo Bryant’s rhythm and blues after high school class broadcasts. (A favorite [...]
Back in the “good old days” of Great Depression No. 1, following Stock Market Crash ’29 years and years – well, at least a galloping few – before my time, the arts with a capital "A" took a real financial broadsiding.
About a dozen days ago tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow — at my age how can I be sure? — I was gifted with a pair of John Lennon enchantment glasses. Gold-rimmed. Sunset orange. Autumn-tinted. Pre-Donald Trump, to be sure.
For five dynamic years — 1940 to 1945 — Detroit was America’s Arsenal of Democracy, a vital source of war materials and weapons. First for England’s defense. Later, for our own. Automotive factories focused on [...]
As an artist, I’m fascinated with the mental phenomenon known as channeling. In the mid-'90s channeling was a cultural fad with many fans. Channelers brought forth purported messages form ages-old entities and other twilight-zone dimensions [...]
My grandmother Lottie Lee Alexander lived with my parents and me from the time I was five until she died in 1954 when I was 18, and had just finished Cass Technical High School where I was a commercial art major.
How quickly the miles rolled and reeled by. And before they could finish their 12th joyful rendition of “Meet Me in St. Louis, Louis,” they unexpectedly found themselves among a small crowd gathered in front of a tiny, makeshift manger. It’s bubble lights twinkled merrily.
Truth is, it was Rudolph, with his shiny nose so bright, that put Claus into the closet; but, to be fair to the antlered, addled-headed kid, it was all Santa’s doing.
Yes, Christmas may never be its gay old self again. And Mr. Gailey will forever be a delete from “Miracle on 34th Street.” (How gay, by the way, is Kris Kringle? He even looks a bit, well, you know, suspect. And what’s all this fascination with kids, anyhow? Has he ever had an authentic FBI security check?)
Martin Luther King, Jr.’s 1965 historic march from Selma to Montgomery, Alabama, for African-American voter rights changed the South forever. (Or, did it?) Few know that another King – William Rufus DeVane King – gave Selma its name 145 years earlier. (It means “high seat” or “throne,” and comes from an epic Ossianic poem, “The Songs of Selma.”)
DRUMSTICK #1: If you’re looking for a ploy to come out to your family this Thanksgiving, you might casually remark that according to “Biological Exuberance” by animal behavior specialist Dr. Bruce Bagemihl, the female domestic [...]
Long, long before The Village People made "YMCA" — the song that would become the unofficial, persistent national anthem of Winter Olympian Brian Boitano – "Ys" played an important role. They were second only to gay bars, as places to meet available others of like-minded, body-mind-and-spirit, triune — me, you and the shower — persuasions. In the '60s and '70s there were four YMCAs in the Metro Detroit area. (The long-gone Grand Circus Park YMCA dating to 1904.) There's only one YMCA now, located on Broadway, in a totally revitalized, energetic, amazingly-changed, thriving new Downtown area.
Back in the mid-'80s a group of gay friends gathered monthly for dinner and sharing at Detroit's historic venue, the Scarab Club. We called ourselves "The Friends of Dorothy Kilgallen". Our campy title was a play on the old closet question, "Are you a friend of Dorothy?" Meaning, Are you gay? A friend of Oz's Dorothy. The title also referenced once-famous Miss Kilgallen, syndicated journalist, panelist for TV's 1960s popular "What's My Line?" guessing game show.
There are shared similarities between high-visibility personalities Pastor Joel Osteen and Republican Vice President Mike Pence. First off, each shepherds a flock of religious followers. Mike’s, however, is basically evangelical and/or fundamentalist. Osteen’s tends to be New Age, Power of Positive Thinking, Prosperity Gospel and devotees of his seven bestseller books, read by a goodly number of his weekly 7 million American TV followers.
Oh, yes. The reading of this redemptive Parting Glances comes with 30 days indulgence, courtesy of Between The Lines and Monsignor Alexander, Blessed Society of Gee Whiz. What you indulge in is your own redemptive business. Amen. Ah-men! Whoever.
“Rottweilers, when dyke trained, tend to be a fanatic, one-owner breed. They also sit well on Harley’s. Lipstick lesbians prefer well-groomed lap pets and in more intimate surroundings a well-trimmed, short-haired, frisky bichon frise.”
Yes. It's been a long journey for me. It wasn't always easy. But, then again, it wasn't that hard either (The journey, not the sex.). I’ve survived, and I like to think I've made something of myself as an artist, a writer and human being who just happens to be quite gay. Contentedly so. Reasonably happy. Most of the time. That's life (I'd gladly do it all over again.).
A few journalists, sexologists, social workers and gay priests, to be sure, saw the handwriting on the wall, almost two decades ago, when an innovative and shocking blog first appeared: bishopaccountability.org.
A 50th anniversary production of Mort Crowley’s groundbreaking play “The Boys in the Band” closed on Broadway Aug. 12 of this year, with big-name stars Jim Parsons (who has said goodbye to TV's "Big Bang Theory"), Andrew Rannells, Matt Bomer and Zachary Quinto.
Harper Hospital (at the time, I hadn’t the slightest idea that my OR training would lead to what might well be the first coincidence of its kind).
"Whoa! Hold on there!" I urge the little guy who works the switch, bargaining for a few more seconds 'til I get my key in the lock and make an unscheduled dash to the loo, there to discharge another distillation of my allotted 40,515 lifetime quarts.
Pain indeed. I was 23 and into my fourth year of a rewarding affair when I was dumped by my partner Ernie for a soldier on leave named Joe (Ernie and I were working at Discount Records in downtown Detroit and Joe was a hunky customer).
To diddle an old saying: You can't judge a gay author or his book by its — or by his — cover. Case in point: the groundbreaking 1951 sociological expose, "The Homosexual in America." Gay nom de plume: Donald Webster Cory — a pen name name gleaned from Andre Gide's 1924 gay novel "Corydon," later published in America in 1950. Real name: Edward Sagarin. Outed dramatically 24 closeted years later.
Detroit's imposing, massive, block-wide Masonic Temple was built in 1922 — cornerstone-dated 5022 — following the Hebraic custom of noting esoteric history. At one time in the 1960s every major dance company in the world, classical musician, orchestra and performer appeared there; many brought to the city by famed impresario Sol Hurok.
June 28, 2025 [Editor’s Note: Translated Cursive English] Dear Diary: Another same-sex couple has been “relocated” – my neighbors two doors down, the boys who did a wonderful job of gentrifying that old house on Wells Street.
There’s a scene in the popular musical “Cabaret” where several German, blond, Aryan youths seated at an outdoor cafe, prompted by Nazi zeal and bombastic music, leap up one by one, and contagiously sing, “Tomorrow the world belongs to us!”
“Gay is good. You are not alone.” This was the slogan when the Affirmations LGBT Center opened its doors in Ferndale more than 20 years ago. It was a bold statement to make at the time: reassurance for many cautious, confused, isolated young people in need of understanding, trained organizational support and a place to hang out.
Long, long before The Village People made "Y.M.C.A." the unofficial, persistent national anthem of Winter Olympian skater Brian Boitano, the Young Mens Christian Associations played an important role, second only to bars, as places to meet available others of like-minded, body-mind-and-spirit, triune persuasions (“You show me your triune, I’ll show you my try-unity. Let’s shower in unison. One with the others”).
FRIDAY (a.m.) I ride backpack on Sister Scatterpin's Heavenly Harley, the two of us heading to Chicago for Gay Games VII. Sister keeps to an ecumenical 85 mph on I-94, with a meditational rosary pullover [...]
No matter the time or the weather, there’s something emotionally tingling about the cellphone vibrations whenever Sr. Serena Scatterpin, Renegade Sisters of Mary, rings me up.
“It’s a pity that youth is wasted on the young,” said George Bernard Shaw, whose play “Pygmalion” was given a fresh start, with an ongoing heart pacer as Broadway's “My Fair Lady.”
It’s been 65 years since I last saw the young man who now sits across from me. He has at age 19 what a friend calls “the lyric poetry of youth:” a freshness of look that’s a joy to see.
At 19, I went to my first gay bar, The Silver Slipper, a dyke bar on Grand River, near downtown Detroit. I used borrowed ID, was escorted authoritatively by two lesbian regulars, Speedy and Draino.
This week’s issue of Between The Lines marks the kickoff of our celebration of 25 years of our dedicated, meaningful, challenging, rainbow-community outreach publication. Whew! Who would have thought it possible? (Did you?)
For five dynamic years — 1940 to 1945 — Detroit was America's Arsenal of Democracy, a vital source of war materials and weapons. First, for England's defense, later, for our own.
After five years of faithful, heavy-duty service the battery in my expensive gift Shinola wrist watch expired. I should have known it was going to happen, because, for the past several weeks, its second hand hesitated, stopping completely for milli-seconds, before lunging forward by five-minute notches at a time. In spite of this, its time was impeccably accurate, so I ignored the warning signal.
It’s 12:01 a.m. according to my now celestial iPhone. I have been just 60 seconds in Heaven — the result of a Michigan Republican-sponsored pothole tripping mishap, courtesy of Gov. Snyder — but it seems like an eternity to me.
Once upon an evil time, when darkness began to gather, hate by political hate, at rainbow’s near end of tunnel, those anointed LGBT and Q by special life’s enchantment and DNA calling, began once more to tremble.
For over 50 years, Life magazine informed Americans about current events both in the U.S. and abroad. Photos and content were dramatic — mostly conservative, occasionally controversial and, sometimes, downright shocking.